you're worth saving, too
by cougarlips
Summary: Daryl liked plans well enough, liked knowing the what and the why but never bothered too awful much with the how and when he found himself in dangerous situations he could only credit sheer luck with his miraculous escape, relatively void of injuries. / crossposted on ao3 / originally posted 24 feb 2017


Daryl was never one to talk about his feelings. He kept quiet, sat and stewed on them, chewed them around his mouth and spat them out when he finally couldn't take it anymore, but never willingly, voluntarily, of his own volition did he share his emotions, his worries, doubts, concerns, or questions.

Jesus, in contrast, was one of the most vocal of both their communities combined. Yes, he sat in the back. Yes, he preferred to let others plan around him. But he didn't let his words go unsaid. If there was a flaw in anyone's plan, he was the first to speak up. He left no stone unturned if he could possibly help it.

That was one – or, that was one _of_ the reasons why – their relationship was so rocky.

Daryl liked plans well enough, liked knowing the _what_ and the _why_ but never bothered too awful much with the _how_ and when he found himself in dangerous situations he could only credit sheer luck with his miraculous escape, relatively void of injuries. It made Jesus – who couldn't so much as leave his bedroom in the morning without a clear and distinct agenda laid out in his mind complete with ordered lists and boxes to check off – want to scream, to tell Daryl off for being so careless.

He never did, though. He knew it was rooted deeper than just Daryl having his own innate dislike of strategizing. He knew from stories he heard from Daryl's group that it went back to his family, to his childhood and his brother, to feeling like his life would always be last on the list of things to save.

He wanted to help Daryl. He wanted to see his partner view his life as something worthwhile and precious, just like everyone around him did. He wanted him to not think of himself as any less than anyone else.

But if there was one thing Daryl liked even less than speaking up about how _he_ felt, it was listening to others speak about how _they_ felt, and as soon as Jesus opened the conversation, he pulled up his walls and shut himself off.

"Just back off, alright?" Daryl grunted, not meeting Jesus's eyes. He shrugged a jacket on to stave off the worst of the autumn chill and picked up his bow, storming out of the house without a single glance back at Jesus, still standing with his hands holding his elbows across his chest.

Jesus worried, sure, when Daryl didn't come back an hour or so later. He started getting antsy after two hours; his skin began to crawl at four. After almost six hours, after the sun began to set, Rick shook his head at him. "He can protect himself," he assured Jesus. "If you go out there now without the sun and your head a mess, it'll get you killed. You just have to trust him."

So Jesus did. He trusted Daryl to come back, to make his way back into the Alexandria gates, perhaps a touch battered and bruised but together and intact. He went about his business: meeting with Rick and Michonne, collecting their stock of inventory which was his true purpose back in Alexandria; and redistributing their goods from the Kingdom, the Hilltop, and the Compound.

He hadn't even noticed the sun begin to break over the horizon when frantic knocks echoed through his and Daryl's shared house, but at Michonne's gaunt expression he knew only one thing could have happened.

When he made it to their makeshift infirmary, Daryl laid face up, his eyes glued to the ceiling while Rosita made quiet _tsk_ ing sounds and bustled around him.

Jesus went to his bedside and sat there, stubbornly grabbing Daryl's hand and refusing to let go, but Daryl didn't resist; instead he tightened his grip as best he could. His hand felt like ice inside Jesus's, stiff and frozen.

(They hardly recognised the group leaving them alone, even Rosita, who said something about Harlan coming over later anyways so he could be the one to make sure Daryl wouldn't lose any extremities from the frostbite.)

Jesus mooched Daryl over and sat on the bed next to him, curling over his chest in a way that made him feel like a boy again, vulnerable and childish, but he couldn't help it.

"Sorry," Daryl said, his voice gravely and hard under his breath. "Thought they'd've frozen already. Thought wrong."

Beside himself, Jesus chuckled. He sobered up a second later. "You can't ignore your feelings forever, Daryl."

He didn't move to look up, couldn't feel whether Daryl nodded or shook his head, if he did at all. But he did feel Daryl hum, the sound buzzing through his chest and vibrating through Jesus's ear.

"I know," he said a few seconds later.


End file.
